Kranch is in place. Carter is in place. Reed is in place.

  Grimes, ever the chameleon, moves through the controlled chaos of the SYNC convention floor like smoke through cracks in a wall. He’s everywhere—checking light cues, adjusting security placements, and coordinating last-minute logistics with a sharp eye and sharper tongue. His headset crackles with fragmented conversations, surveillance updates, and the faint murmur of excited pleasantries being exchanged backstage.

  In the green room just offstage, Barry Cox paces like a caged animal in a glass cage. The muffled hum of the swelling crowd filters through the heavy curtains, blending with the faint crescendos of an orchestral score being fine-tuned by unseen sound engineers. The digital clock above the doorway glows red, ticking down the minutes.

  Less than sixty minutes until showtime.

  Barry adjusts his cufflinks—silver, polished, and catching the light like shards of ice. His suit fits him like a second skin, every line sharp, every angle deliberate. His gaze snaps to Seth Gauthier, his second-in-command, who stands silent and still as a statue, his phone clutched in one hand. Seth is Barry’s counterweight—calm where Barry burns hot, measured where Barry accelerates, but no less dangerous.

  Barry stops pacing. His voice is low, sharp-edged, and final.

  “Execute.”

  Seth doesn’t blink. His fingers move across his phone with mechanical precision, firing off encrypted messages to operatives embedded across the convention center.

  On the floor, agents in plain clothes begin to shift—subtle movements, easy to miss unless you know exactly what to look for. They drift into key positions, closing gaps, tightening invisible nooses.

  At the security checkpoints, guards stiffen their posture, their eyes scanning faces with extra intensity. Entrances and exits begin to lose their casual openness, transforming into narrow choke points.

  In the rigging above the stage, Kranch watches as two guards subtly reposition themselves near the technical booth. Their body language is wrong—too stiff, too alert. He grips the metal beam beneath him, his knuckles turning white.

  In the tech hub, Carter’s tablet flickers—a sharp pulse in the firewall. Someone is probing their network, pressing against their digital defenses with methodical aggression. Carter’s lips thin as he types a rapid series of commands, fighting to keep their backdoor connections alive.

  Near a service entrance, Reed feels it—that prickle at the back of his neck, the phantom weight of unseen eyes following his every move. A janitor mops the same patch of floor one too many times. A woman lingers near an emergency exit, her phone never quite pointed at her face. Every detail hums with the electric charge of suspicion.

  The net is tightening.

  Backstage, Barry adjusts his tie with the satisfaction of a conductor lifting his baton. His smirk is faint, but it carries the weight of inevitability.

  To the untrained eye, SYNC looks flawless—polished, refined, another glamorous keynote ready to unveil innovation and vision to the world. But beneath the surface, unseen gears are grinding, invisible wires are pulling, and every player is being maneuvered into position.

  SYNC isn’t an event anymore—it has become a battleground. And Barry Cox just gave the order to fire the first shot.

  Suddenly, the storm struck without warning.

  Kranch was perched high above the stage in the rigging, a shadow among shadows, watching the floor below with hawk-like precision. His headset crackled with faint static, Grimes muttering updates into his ear. But then—a metallic clank. A sound out of place.

  Before Kranch could turn, two figures in black tactical gear appeared on either side of him, moving with practiced silence. One of them lunged, grabbing Kranch by the collar of his jacket, while the other jammed a pistol into his ribcage.

  “Don’t fight. Don’t speak. Move.”

  The command was delivered in a low, sharp whisper, but the cold steel pressed against Kranch’s side made the order unnecessary. His mind raced—how had they gotten up here? But there was no time for answers. His headset was yanked off, the wire snapping, and he was dragged backward into the shadows, disappearing from his vantage point above the stage.

  At almost the exact same moment, Carter sat hunched over his tablet in the tech hub, his fingers flying across the keyboard as he patched into another layer of Barry’s firewalls. The flickering signals were stabilizing, the green indicators on his screen solidifying into steady lines.

  “Gotcha,” he muttered under his breath.

  The door behind him creaked open. Carter froze, his hand hovering over the keyboard. Two men stepped inside, one blocking the exit, the other closing the door with deliberate slowness.

  “Step away from the console,” the taller of the two said, his voice low and deadly. A pistol, silencer attached, was aimed directly at Carter’s chest.

  Carter raised his hands slowly, palms up. “Listen, guys, I’m just running diagnostics. Tech stuff. You sure you’ve got the right guy?”

  The second operative stepped forward, his glare cutting through Carter’s weak attempt at an excuse. “Move. Now.”

  Carter was yanked from his chair, his tablet slipping from his hands and clattering onto the floor. One operative picked it up, tucking it under his arm as they marched Carter out the side door and into an unmarked hallway.

  Meanwhile, in the back of the auditorium, Reed stood near the rear doors, his stance casual but his focus razor-sharp. The auditorium was filling up now, attendees filtering in and finding their seats, their faces glowing with excitement and anticipation.

  Reed scanned the rows, his trained eyes picking out subtle anomalies—Barry’s plainclothes operatives woven into the crowd like invisible threads in an intricate tapestry.

  He felt them before he saw them.

  Two men approached from the side aisles, cutting through the sea of chairs with extreme grace. Their suits were clean but ill-fitting, their shoulders too rigid for anyone attending a photography conference.

  One of them stepped directly into Reed’s path, his jacket parting just enough to reveal the black grip of a sidearm holstered under his arm. The other positioned himself slightly behind Reed, blocking any easy retreat.

  “Mr. Sawyer,” the first man said smoothly, his voice a polished blade. “We’d like to have a word with you. Now.”

  The second man’s jacket shifted, flashing another weapon tucked against his ribs.

  Reed’s pulse quickened, but his expression remained carefully neutral. The weight of the crowd behind him pressed against his back—hundreds of people, oblivious to the thin line Reed was walking.

  The lead operative leaned closer, his voice dropping to a growl. “Don’t make this difficult.”

  For a brief, fleeting second, Reed considered his options—fight, run, disappear into the chaos. But he knew better. Not here. Not now.

  He raised his hands slightly, palms out. “Alright, gentlemen. Lead the way.”

  The operatives flanked him, one on each side, and began guiding Reed out of the auditorium.

  Reed didn’t resist as the two operatives guided him out. The distant hum of chatter and excitement from the growing crowd faded behind them, swallowed by the sterile silence of the side hallway. Their footsteps echoed against the polished tile floor, the cold fluorescents casting sharp shadows along the walls.

  They turned a corner, stepping into a narrow service corridor where the air was thick with the faint smell of industrial cleaner. A service door marked Authorized Personnel Only loomed at the end of the hall.

  The lead operative stopped walking and turned to face Reed. His expression was blank, but his hand hovered near the pistol under his jacket.

  “This is where we make things official, Mr. Sawyer,” he said flatly.

  The second operative reached into his jacket and pulled out a set of stainless-steel handcuffs. The metal caught the light, flashing briefly before they were snapped open with a sharp click.

  “Hands in front,” the lead operative ordered.

  Reed hesitated for half a second. The hallway was empty, quiet—too quiet. A dozen escape scenarios flickered through his mind, but none ended without gunfire. He could almost feel the weight of the crowd in the auditorium behind him, each unsuspecting person a potential collateral casualty.

  With a resigned breath, Reed extended his arms forward. The cuffs clicked shut around his wrists, biting into the skin just enough to remind him that his freedom was no longer his own.

  The lead operative gave the cuffs a sharp tug, testing their security. Satisfied, he gave a curt nod to his partner.

  “Let’s move.”

  One operative gripped Reed’s arm while the other positioned himself slightly behind, maintaining a hand near his weapon. Together, they steered Reed through the service door and into a dimly lit stairwell.

  Above, the stage lights flared, a technician testing one final dramatic cue. The crowd continued to fill the seats, the murmurs and soft laughter masking the quiet, surgical extraction taking place right under their noses.

  Three operatives down. Three pieces removed from the board.

  Somewhere deep within the labyrinth of doors, hallways, and hidden rooms in the convention center, a door slammed shut behind Reed. The metallic clang reverberated through the sterile space, lingering in the cold, stale air. Overhead, fluorescent lights buzzed faintly, casting a harsh, clinical glow over the small, windowless room. The walls were bare concrete, and a single metal table stood in the center, surrounded by three mismatched chairs.

  Kranch and Carter were already there, handcuffed to their chairs. Kranch’s lip was split, a faint smear of blood trailing down his chin, while Carter’s head hung low, his expression a mixture of frustration and simmering rage.

  Reed stumbled slightly as he was shoved forward, his cuffed wrists throwing off his balance. The operative behind him caught his shoulder—not out of kindness, but to keep him from hitting the floor.

  Kranch’s sharp eyes locked onto Reed’s, and in that brief exchange, an entire conversation passed between them—apology, anger, regret.

  “Sit him down,” came a calm but authoritative voice.

  Seth Gauthier stepped out from the shadowed corner of the room, hands tucked neatly behind his back. His suit was immaculate, the sharp lines accentuating his rigid posture. His usually composed expression was marred by something else now—a flicker of disappointment, perhaps, or something colder.

  The two operatives forced Reed into the remaining chair and secured his cuffs to a metal loop welded into the tabletop. The sound of metal on metal grated against the silence.

  Seth stepped closer, his polished shoes clicking against the concrete floor. He didn’t speak immediately, letting the silence stretch long enough for it to become suffocating. Finally, he turned his sharp gaze to the two operatives.

  “I’ll take it from here,” he said evenly.

  The operatives hesitated, exchanging glances. One of them shifted slightly, as if to object, but Seth’s piercing stare froze him in place.

  “You have your orders,” Seth continued, his voice lowering slightly but losing none of its edge. “Guard this door. No one in, no one out. No exceptions. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, sir,” one of them replied, his voice clipped and formal.

  Seth stepped aside as the operatives left the room. The heavy door closed with a deep thud, the metallic lock clicking into place.

  The silence that followed felt heavy, oppressive.

  Seth took a slow, measured breath, his eyes sweeping over the three men in front of him—Kranch, bruised but determined; Carter, simmering with silent frustration; and Reed, steady and watchful, his sharp gaze locked onto Seth.

  Seth began to pace, his hands still neatly clasped behind his back, the faint echo of his footsteps filling the sterile room.

  He stopped abruptly, turning his head slightly toward Reed.

  The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut glass.

  The air hung heavy, charged with something unspoken, something dangerous.

  Without breaking eye contact, Seth reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, black walkie-talkie.

  No one spoke. No one dared breathe too loudly.

  Seth raised the walkie-talkie to his lips, his voice low and sharp.

  “Grimes, I have all three. Execute the plan.”

  A brief crackle of static was followed by a curt response from Grimes. Seth’s expression didn’t change.

  Switching to his earpiece, Seth spoke again, this time with quiet intensity. “Barry, the plan has been executed perfectly. You’ll be on stage in about fifteen minutes.”

  Satisfied, Seth lowered both devices.

  At that moment, backstage, Barry Cox stood just behind the curtain, watching the empty podium with a sharp glint in his eyes. In his earpiece he receives Seth’s message.

  A thin smile curved across his lips as he slid the phone back into his jacket.

  The net had closed.

  SYNC was his stage now.

  And Barry Cox intended to give the performance of his life.

  Back in the windowless room, Seth stepped forward and unlocked Reed’s handcuffs with a sharp click. The cuffs clattered onto the cold concrete floor. Seth repeated the process with Kranch and Carter, freeing them one by one.

  He straightened, meeting Reed’s steady gaze.

  “Everything is in place,” Seth said firmly. “You have around fifteen minutes.”

  For a moment, Reed studied Seth, the weight of unspoken understanding passing between them.

  "Thank you," Reed said, his voice steady.

  He turned to Kranch and Carter. The blood on Kranch’s face had started to dry, flaking at the edges, but his expression was frozen—shock. Carter looked the same, his face white, the blood drained away. Confusion. A hint of something close to disbelief. A million emotions flashing across his face all at once.

  What had just happened? Barry had won. The game was over. They had both accepted it. Their lives—over.

  But no. The board had shifted. Again.

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  Could this really be happening?

  "Follow me," Reed said. "I'll explain on the way."

  Without waiting for a response, Reed moved swiftly toward a hidden back exit door, Kranch and Carter falling in behind him. The door clicking shut behind them. The corridor was dimly lit, the distant hum of the convention floor muffled by layers of concrete and insulation. They moved quickly, their footsteps sharp against the polished floor, the air thick with urgency.

  They were on their way to where Grimes had set up a special control room deep within the convention center—a hidden nerve center shielded from Barry's operatives and surveillance grid. Reed led the way, whispering as they moved.

  “When we were in Vienna,” Reed began, glancing back at Kranch and Carter, “I received a message from Seth. He told me Barry was spiraling—that his grip on PPI was slipping and that a growing number of operatives were beginning to question his leadership. Seth said Barry’s obsession with control was blinding him, making him reckless.”

  They rounded a corner, slipping through an unmarked door into the control room. Screens flickered across the walls, live feeds streaming from hidden cameras scattered throughout the convention center. The air buzzed with the hum of electronics and the faint chatter of distant voices through the speakers.

  Grimes was already inside, his eyes darting between monitors, headset firmly in place, fingers tapping rapidly across a keyboard. When he noticed Reed, Kranch, and Carter entering, he stood, pulling off his headset with a smirk.

  “Well, look who made it out from under Barry’s thumb,” Grimes said, his voice edged with relief. He winked as he passed them, pausing briefly at the door. “I’ve got SYNC duties to perform, gentlemen. Try not to burn the place down.”

  And with that, he slipped out of the room, leaving the trio surrounded by a wall of flickering screens and the weight of the moment hanging heavy in the air.

  Reed turned back to his team, his voice edged with exhaustion.

  “Seth was the one who suggested placing the recording device at the stairwell in Vienna. It was his idea to create a failsafe—to capture Barry’s voice, his words, his intent. Almost every breadcrumb we followed, nearly every piece of intel we acted on, it all came from Seth.”

  Kranch frowned, tension visible in his squared shoulders. Carter’s gaze stayed locked on Reed, suspicion and frustration flickering in his eyes.

  “So, all those encrypted messages—the light and darkness stuff, the scriptures—that was Seth?” Carter asked, his voice sharp.

  “No,” Reed said firmly, shaking his head. “I don’t think so. Whoever’s behind those messages… they only seem to step in when we start veering off course. Like they’re nudging us back into place.”

  Reed’s eyes swept the room. “For now, we stick to the plan. Until we know more, it’s all we’ve got.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us sooner?” Carter asked, still confused.

  “Because we couldn’t take a chance on even the smallest crack in the plan,” Reed said, his tone firm and apologetic at the same time. “Barry needed to believe he was untouchable. He had to feel invincible, like nothing could stop him. Seth also told me that Barry was receiving encrypted messages—those ones about light and shadows—he was getting them too. Those messages rattled him. They made him paranoid, and Seth used that paranoia to guide him right into this moment.”

  Reed stepped closer to his team, his voice dropping lower.

  “I couldn’t risk telling anyone. Not until now. Because if Barry suspected even a whisper of this alliance with Seth, it would have all come crashing down.”

  Silence hung in the air. Reed looked Kranch and Carter in the eyes, his expression raw.

  “I’m asking you to trust me now. To forgive me for keeping you in the dark. But it was the only way to get us here—to this moment, with a real shot at bringing Barry down.”

  Kranch let out a slow breath, his shoulders relaxing slightly. Carter hesitated, then gave a small nod, his frustration fading under the weight of Reed’s words.

  Reed broke the silence between them, “We’ve got less than ten minutes before Barry takes the stage.” Reed’s resolve as hard as ever. “So, let’s finish this.”

  The cavernous auditorium of the SYNC convention hall buzzed with anticipation. Thousands of attendees sat shoulder-to-shoulder in the dim light, the massive LED screens casting a mysterious and elusive glow over the crowd. Both the six and seven blade PPI logos shimmered in brilliant white against a sleek black backdrop as a cinematic orchestral score thundered through the speakers, building to a crescendo.

  Then silence.

  A single spotlight illuminated the stage.

  From the shadows, Barry Cox emerged.

  He walked with purpose, his sharp suit catching every gleam of light, his expression one of confident authority. The applause erupted like a tidal wave, crashing over him in waves of admiration and respect. Barry paused at the podium, savoring the adulation, his smile spreading wide with an air of cunning.

  He raised a hand, and the applause faded into a hushed stillness.

  Barry leaned into the microphone, his voice smooth, magnetic, carrying the weight of a man in charge.

  "What does it mean to control what others see? In this digital age, perception isn't just reality—it's power. At any given moment, billions of images are being shared, consumed, believed. But who decides which of those images matter? Who shapes the story they tell?"

  He let the question hang in the air, the silence pregnant with expectation. The crowd was rapt, every face turned upward, every pair of eyes locked on Barry.

  "At PPI, we don't just capture moments—we define them. We decide which stories get told, which truths get seen. And today..." His smile sharpened as he straightened his posture, hands gripping the edges of the podium. "...I'm going to show you exactly what that means."

  At that exact moment—timed to the second—Reed’s hand hovered over the keyboard, his jaw set in iron determination. He turned to Carter, who gave a single nod.

  “Do it.”

  Reed hit ‘Enter.’

  In less than a second, chaos ignited across every screen in the SYNC auditorium, across laptops and smartphones, and on live broadcasts streamed to newsrooms around the world. A cascade of digital notifications flooded across the globe.

  Photographic Evidence: Barry Cox with the weaponized lens, his face frozen in a moment of sinister intent.

  Financial Records: Encrypted accounts showing billions funneled through shell corporations, hidden under PPI’s glossy exterior.

  Internal Memos: Documents signed by Barry himself, detailing cover-ups, coercion, and the dismantling of those who had opposed him.

  The special encryption key, that haunting code—Section: 3. Page: 16. Code: 105-B—was transmitted directly to Secretary Kessler, who, true to his word, was waiting on standby. Within moments, Kessler’s team activated secure channels, disseminating the evidence to global agencies, investigative journalists, and key governmental figures.

  In return, Kessler’s team sent Reed the contents of his classified file. The evidence was catastrophic: Barry had murdered his brother Marcus. Plans, maps, strategies—it was all there, laid out with chilling precision. Every detail of Barry’s scheme to seize control of PPI and manipulate global affairs was exposed, a blueprint for power built on betrayal and blood.

  Carter compiled the data into a concise, devastating presentation. The file was uploaded and streamed directly to the SYNC audience, every device now displaying the whole truth.

  Inboxes pinged with a bulk email blast containing links to all of the evidence. Social media feeds exploded with the hashtag #PPIExposed, already trending worldwide.

  Barry, still unaware of what was unfolding, continued speaking confidently at the podium—his voice smooth, his presence commanding. But beneath the stage lights, a ripple of unease began to spread through the audience.

  It started with flickers of confusion—furrowed brows, sideways glances, the glow of screens illuminating stunned faces. Murmurs swelled into sharp whispers, whispers into shouts. Eyes darted between Barry and their devices, disbelief spreading like wildfire. Shock rippled through the crowd, and a wave of gasps as the truth hit—Barry had betrayed them. No denying it now. It was out there, raw and undeniable, for everyone to see.

  Barry paused midsentence. His fake smile faltered, his rhythm broken. Cracks began to show in the Architect’s fa?ade.

  From the stage, under the sharp glare of the lights, he could see it—the flicker of blue screens illuminating faces across the audience. The realization hit him like a punch to the chest.

  He knew. In an instant, he knew.

  His hand gripped the podium, his smile twitching as if trying to hold itself together.

  But the damage was done.

  Barry’s carefully constructed empire was crumbling in real time, and the world was watching every piece fall.

  In the hidden nerve center, Reed, Kranch, and Carter watched the storm unfold across dozens of monitors.

  “Every feed is holding,” Carter said, his voice steady. “The media’s running with it.”

  Reed nodded, his chest rising and falling as adrenaline surged through his veins.

  “It’s happening,” Kranch said, a mixture of disbelief and relief threading through his voice. “We actually did it.”

  But Reed wasn’t smiling. His eyes stayed locked on Barry’s frozen expression on one of the screens, his face illuminated by the glow of the monitors.

  “It’s not over yet,” Reed said, his voice low and razor-sharp.

  Back on stage, Barry forced himself to stand straighter, grasping the podium so tightly his knuckles turned white. His voice wavered—just slightly.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please—please remain calm.”

  But calm was impossible. The illusion had shattered, and panic was seeping through the cracks. Attendees stood, shouting questions, holding up their phones, their faces illuminated by damaging headlines and streams of evidence. Security teams hesitated, their eyes darting between Barry and the growing chaos in the crowd.

  Backstage, Seth’s earpiece crackled to life, operatives speaking over each other in fragmented bursts.

  “Sir, the feeds—”

  Seth silenced the voice with a sharp tap of his finger. His expression was an unreadable mix of pride and relief. He knew there was no salvaging this.

  Barry’s lips trembled as he fought to regain control, his sharp gaze sweeping across the restless auditorium.

  But the light was shining too brightly now. Every flaw, every crack in his perfect veneer was exposed.

  In a last-ditch effort to seize control back from the jaws of collapse, Barry triggered his grand slideshow. The auditorium lights dimmed slightly, and the speakers blared to life, drowning out the rising voices of the crowd.

  In the dim glow of the control room, Reed turned to his team. His voice was low, steady, and sharp with urgency.

  “Barry knows he’s lost. But that doesn’t mean he won’t fight back. He’s cornered now, and cornered animals are the most dangerous.”

  His eyes flicked to one of the monitors where Barry’s slideshow was beginning—the polished visuals, the swelling orchestral music, the towering confidence of a man trying to reclaim control.

  Reed’s face was set in stone, his voice resolute. “It’s time.”

  Carter’s fingers flew across the keyboard, overriding Barry’s control of the presentation feed. The slideshow froze mid-transition, the screen flickering before snapping to black. The music cut out, leaving an eerie silence hanging over the auditorium.

  The house lights dimmed even more, and a single spotlight flared to life—bright and unforgiving—pinning Barry at the center of the stage. His microphone crackled once and then died, leaving him speechless under the harsh beam.

  The silence was shattered by the unmistakable sound of Barry’s own voice, crystal clear, broadcast across every speaker in the hall:

  “The photoshoot goes as scheduled. No deviations. The Secretary will be eliminated on my signal. I’ll handle it personally. It must look clean, unavoidable. A tragic, unforeseeable accident. No loose ends. Do you understand me? I’ll make sure it’s done right, and then we move forward—unshaken, untouchable. There will be no mistakes.”

  At that exact moment, every screen in the auditorium blinked to life, displaying a single frozen image: Barry Cox, standing, grinning with cold confidence, the weaponized gun-lens clutched in his hands, smoke still curling from its barrel.

  The audience gasped—loud, collective, sharp.

  The recording continued to play, Barry’s voice unwavering in its ruthless clarity:

  “The world will see what I want them to see. Nothing more. Nothing less. And if anyone tries to screw up, well… accidents happen all the time in this business.”

  The final syllable echoed through the cavernous hall, reverberating into stunned silence.

  Barry stood frozen at the podium, his face pale, his eyes wide as he stared out into a sea of horrified faces.

  Reed, watching from the control room, leaned closer to the monitor. His voice was a quiet razor.

  “Checkmate.”

  Barry’s eyes scanned the chaos of the auditorium, his carefully constructed empire unraveling right before his eyes. Faces lit by the disastrous image of him holding the weaponized lens, voices rising in confusion and anger, the crowd teetering on the edge of panic.

  Then Barry saw him—Dovere, his most trusted operative, the man to whom he'd given the failsafe drive. The shadowy figure was stationed near one of the side exits, half-obscured by darkness, his leather-gloved hands resting easily at his sides, his stoic expression betraying nothing.

  Barry’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp and commanding.

  “Engage!!” Barry's command crackled through every operative's earpiece, setting off a chain reaction.

  The word cracked like a gunshot across the auditorium.

  Dovere's subtle nod triggered a coordinated response. Like pieces on a chessboard, Barry's agents began moving into position—some melting into shadows, others drifting toward predetermined stations. Each had their role, their moment, their specific task in Barry's grand contingency.

  But it was the smallest movement that caught Grimes's attention.

  Near the edge of the auditorium, partially concealed behind a structural pole, a figure crouched low. The soft blue glow of a laptop screen illuminated Dovere’s face from below. His fingers moved across the keyboard with urgency, eyes locked on the screen with laser focus.

  Grimes moved quickly, weaving through the scattering crowd...

  The moment he was close enough to see the screen, Grimes froze. It was Barry’s failsafe protocol—a cascade of encrypted commands flowing across the display. His stomach dropped.

  “Stop!” Grimes lunged forward, grabbing for the laptop.

  Dovere reacted instantly, shoving Grimes backward with surprising strength. Grimes stumbled but recovered, lunging again. This time, he managed to knock the laptop sideways, but it was too late. A sharp, metallic click echoed as the man hit Enter.

  Grimes’s voice roared through the earpiece, panic and urgency mixing in a sharp edge.

  “Barry’s secondary plan has been executed! Less than two minutes!”

  In the control room, Carter’s tablet blared with flashing warnings. The cascading script told him everything he needed to know—Barry’s failsafe protocol had been triggered.

  A secondary network had come online, completely bypassing Carter’s systems. Devices embedded deep within PPI’s infrastructure—planted days ago by Reed and Kranch—had been compromised. Instead of delaying Barry’s plan, they were now amplifying it, helping to deliver its devastating message.

  Carter’s voice was tight, focused, and loud as he screamed.

  “No, no, no… not like this.”

  His fingers flew across the keyboard, every keystroke a battle against the countdown flashing in the corner of his screen. A red timer ticked down mercilessly.

  1:54… 1:53… 1:52…

  Reed leaned over Carter’s shoulder; his voice low and intense. “Can you stop it?”

  Carter’s jaw clenched.

  “I can try. But he’s routed it through three layers of encryption. He’s had this in place for a while. I can slow it, maybe. But stop it? Not with this little time.”

  Kranch stepped closer, his voice steady despite the rising tension.

  “What happens if it goes through?”

  Carter didn’t look away from the screen.

  “Barry’s backup narrative activates. Every piece of evidence we’ve released gets buried under layers of disinformation. He’ll make himself look like the hero who stopped us. The whole world will see us as traitors.”

  1:25… 1:24… 1:23…

  Reed slammed his fist on the table, the sound echoing in the tight control room.

  “Then buy us time. Whatever it takes.”

  Carter nodded, sweat beading on his forehead as he continued typing.

  “Hold on. I might have a way to reroute his signal. It won’t stop the upload, but it’ll corrupt the data—make it unreadable.”

  Reed’s eyes flicked to the monitor showing Barry still onstage, shouting to his operatives as the crowd surged around him.

  “Do it!”

  Reed turned back to Carter.

  “You have less than ninety seconds. Make it count.”

  Carter didn’t respond, his focus absolute. His fingers moved like lightning across the keys, fighting Barry’s digital fortress with every ounce of skill he had.

  1:00… 0:59… 0:58…

  The countdown blazed on Carter’s screen, every second a nail driven deeper into their fleeting chance at victory.

  0:54… 0:53… 0:52…

  Carter’s hands flew across the keyboard, lines of code flashing as he hacked and re-routed Barry’s failsafe systems. Sweat dripped from his brow, his breath shallow and sharp.

  0:48… 0:47… 0:46…

  “Come on, come on…” he muttered under his breath.

  Reed and Kranch hovered behind him, every nerve taut as they watched the digital clock tick toward zero.

  Then—Carter slammed the Enter key.

  The clock froze at 0:42. Relief washed over the team. A long silence hung heavy in the control room as everyone let out a collective breath. Carter had done it.

  But the victory was short-lived. Alarms flashed red across Carter’s monitors, cascading like digital blood stains.

  His voice was tight, controlled. “We stopped it… but not all of it. Part of Barry’s failsafe still activated.”

  Reed’s head snapped toward the monitors. “What part?”

  Before Carter could answer, the entire convention center plunged into darkness.

  The auditorium erupted into chaos. Thousands of attendees screamed in the suffocating pitch black. Security personnel scrambled, barking orders into dead radios as communication channels failed. Emergency lights flickered sporadically but failed to stabilize.

  Somewhere in the dark, someone shouted, “Stay calm! Please, stay calm!”

  But calm was impossible.

  Key access points to the building locked down with heavy metallic clunks. Backup power systems failed to initiate. Smoke began seeping from ventilation ducts—non-lethal, but thick and disorienting.

  It was chaos by design.

  Backstage, Seth appeared out of the shadows directing Barry, a flashlight cutting through the gloom.

  Barry’s voice was tight, every ounce of his charm stripped away. “We’re leaving. Now.”

  Seth nodded, leading Barry down an emergency corridor lined with blinking red lights.

  In the Control Room, Carter’s screens were a mess of alerts and warnings.

  “Security’s down. Communications are jammed. And… oh no.” His voice caught. “Key personnel—security leads, response teams—they’re being neutralized one by one. Barry had sleeper agents ready for this exact scenario.”

  Reed slammed his hand against the desk. “Can you stop it?”

  “I already have. Barry’s final phase—the false narrative—never got out. But the damage was done just enough for him to escape. He had this planned from the start.”

  Reed turned to Kranch, his voice furious. “We have to stop him before he gets out.”

  On the far edge of the convention center, an unmarked black SUV waited with its engine running. Seth shoved open the side door, ushering Barry inside. The vehicle’s tinted windows reflected the flickering red lights of the emergency systems.

  As the SUV roared to life, tires screeching against the asphalt, Barry’s phone buzzed.

  A single message glowed on the screen:

  “You cannot outrun the light, Architect.”

  Barry’s fingers tightened around the device, his jaw clenched. But he said nothing.

  The SUV sped away, disappearing into the vast expanse of the Las Vegas desert, taillights shrinking into the night.

  Back in the Control Room, Carter slumped back into his chair, his chest rising and falling with exhaustion. The glow from the remaining monitors painted his face in sharp contrast.

  Reed stared at the flickering security feeds showing empty corridors and abandoned checkpoints.

  Kranch shook his head slowly. “He’s gone.”

  Reed’s fists tightened at his sides. “For now.”

  Carter looked up, his voice tired and resolute. “We stopped his story from going out. The truth is out there now. People know.”

  Reed nodded slowly. “But Barry isn’t finished. He’s still out there, and he’s still dangerous.”

  Kranch smirked faintly, trying to lighten the tension. “Well, at least we ruined his big night.”

  Reed turned back to the monitors, his gaze fixed on the last blurry image of Barry disappearing into the night.

  “This isn’t over. Not yet.”